


The Stag and The Deerstalker

by Pickwick12



Category: Hannibal (TV), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Murder, Mystery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-25
Updated: 2014-06-12
Packaged: 2017-12-16 02:30:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 19
Words: 13,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/856743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pickwick12/pseuds/Pickwick12
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dr. Alana Bloom enlists the help of the world's only consulting detective to solve the mystery of the Copycat Killer and prove the innocence of Will Graham. Rated T for mentions of things in the shows.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Help Will Graham

**Help Will Graham**

“What am I doing here in this endless winter?”   
― [Franz Kafka](http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/5223.Franz_Kafka),  _[The Metamorphosis and Other Stories](http://www.goodreads.com/work/quotes/19196823)_

 

            “You want me to prove he’s innocent because you’re in love with him.” Holmes surveyed the woman in front of him—young, but not too young. Pretty, but not vulgarly so. She smiled.

            “I won’t deny that I’m attracted to Will Graham, but what makes you think I’m in love with him?” She looked at him like a cat contemplating a ball of string.

            “No need to form any complex psychological suppositions about my mental processes,” he answered, not altogether pleasantly. “It’s pure logic.”

            “No one takes her first leave of absence in five years and travels overseas at considerable personal cost for the sake of a colleague, even a favorite colleague. If Will Graham was nothing more than a good friend, you’d have contacted me through my website and taken your chances. But you couldn’t risk it. He’s too important.”

            “Who’s doing psychoanalysis now?” she asked mildly, picking up her teacup and surveying its complex map of Great Britain before setting it down gently and staring Holmes full in the face. “I really don’t care how much you know about me. What I care about is whether or not you’re willing to help Will Graham.” Her tone was level, but he could tell her projected aura of calm was costing her great personal effort.

            “That seems reasonable,” Watson suddenly saw fit to put in. Holmes was forever amazed by his friend’s bizarre timing. The doctor would say it was social courtesy, but the placement of his remarks seemed invariably random to his friend.

            “We’ll come,” said Holmes.

            “Excellent,” said Dr. Bloom, a little too quickly. She traced the embroidered Union Flag on the pillow next to her. “How long will it take you to work out immigration?”

            “Not long,” the detective answered, offering no more than that. “Of course, you’d have sorted that already if you weren’t doing this behind the backs of everyone in your department.” He showed his hand on purpose, wanting her to see how much he knew and infer the futility of trying to play him the way she was obviously playing her superiors.

            “True,” she answered simply, unperturbed. “My boss thinks Will Graham is a deluded serial killer. Not exactly apt to provide an expense account for a trip to another country to recruit an amateur detective.”

            “Forgive me, Dr. Bloom,” said Watson hesitantly, “but if you work for the FBI, why do you need Sherlock?”

            Holmes smiled and provided his own answer. “Really, John, I’m the best in the world.”

            “I read the account of the Hudson case,” said the woman, exactly as if he hadn’t spoken. “It’s part of the profiling curriculum.”

            “A book?” asked Watson, obviously annoyed that Holmes had never informed him of its existence.

            “I’ve never read it,” said Holmes. “I haven’t time to care what inanity a psychiatrist surmises about a clear-cut case of serial murder.”

            “Hardly clear-cut,” said Dr. Bloom, addressing Watson. “He made connections no one else in the world could have made. The book is a parallel between Mr. Holmes’s movements and Mr. Hudson’s. It’s a profile of two types of abnormal psychology, the criminal’s and the detective’s. It’s considered a classic in the field.” She turned back to Holmes.

            “You’ll have to meet the author, whether you want to or not. Will Graham is insisting that he’s the real killer, even though there’s no evidence linking him to any of the murders. He was my teacher, a long time ago. His name is Hannibal Lecter.”

            Holmes pressed his fingertips together. “I look forward to meeting him.”

 


	2. Abnormal Psychology

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bedelia Du Maurier and Hannibal Lecter find themselves with new patients, and Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson begin an investigation with high stakes.

**Abnormal Psychology**

“Was he an animal, that music could move him so? He felt as if the way to the unknown nourishment he longed for were coming to light.”   
― [Franz Kafka](http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/5223.Franz_Kafka),  _[The Metamorphosis](http://www.goodreads.com/work/quotes/2373750)_

            Dr. Bedelia Du Maurier took a sip of water and paced the floor in front of her door. She didn’t know why she should be nervous; she had no reason to be. Returning to practice was a natural progression, as Hannibal had so often said. Still, she couldn’t help wondering if she could fit back into her role as easily as her lone continuous patient seemed to assume.

            The doorbell startled her out of her reverie, but as she greeted her first appointment, she began to feel herself regaining her footing. She had been here many times, and she knew what to do.

            “Mr. Sigerson?”

            “That’s right,” said the rail-thin young man in a halting voice. He was dressed casually, in jeans and a long-sleeved purple sweater. His eyes stared firmly at the floor.

            “Come in,” she said smoothly. “Would you like a cup of tea?” He followed her like an overgrown puppy and sat awkwardly on the edge of her plush therapy chair.

            Anxiety. Neuroses. Pathological shyness. She sat down opposite her patient and flipped through her mental rolodex, assembling all the delicate psychological tools she planned to use to perform whatever mental surgery might be needed to relieve the patient’s suffering.

            Meanwhile, the young man’s eyes darted frantically around the room.

* * *

 

            “Dr. Lecter?” The small man stood ramrod straight in the front room of the office. Military, no doubt. He looked like he might salute any minute.

            “Have a seat, Mr. Doyle,” said the doctor. Half the battle with this type was getting beyond the formality. He relished the challenge; it had been too long since he’d had one.

            “I appreciate you seeing me,” said the patient, sitting forward in his chair opposite Lecter. “I was afraid the FBI trouble would push my appointment back.”

            “Not at all,” said the psychiatrist, modulating his voice to be as warm as possible. “Minds don’t cease thinking when trouble is afoot.” The man smiled briefly at this, as if it reminded him of something.

            “Mine doesn’t,” he agreed. “They—they tell me I have PTSD.”

            “Let’s not worry so much about labels,” said the doctor. “I’d rather talk about whatever is on your mind.”

            “I’ve never been to a psychiatrist before,” said the patient, blinking.

            “Why are you here?” asked Hannibal.

            “I’m getting married,” he answered. “I don’t want to take the war with me.”

            “What if,” asked the doctor in his softly accented English, “we could change that memory into something you don’t want to lose?”

            Doyle folded his arms. “If you can do that, you’ll change my opinion of psychiatrists forever.” It was an opportunity Hannibal was eager to take.

* * *

 

            “The ice machine doesn’t even work, John!” Sherlock Holmes huffed onto a desk chair in his friend’s miserably small Holiday Inn room that adjoined his own equally dismal allotment.

            “You’re the one who insisted we couldn’t stay in the hotel Dr. Bloom recommended,” Watson rejoined practically, as he sprawled on a tiny double bed and flipped through _ESPN Magazine_.

            “We can’t afford to attract attention by staying anywhere—decent,” Holmes whined.

            “Well, I can’t see what I’m accomplishing by getting imaginary therapy,” said Watson. “Couldn’t you just go to both psychiatrists yourself?”

            “Ideally, yes,” Holmes answered, “but Dr. Lecter is more dangerous to my ruse than Dr. Du Maurier, also more important. I can’t risk him figuring out who I am. You, at least, are consulting him in your own guise, more or less.”

            “We both know I can’t do what you do,” said Watson tartly.

            “Unfortunately not,” said his friend, “but you’re the next best thing. I’ll help you remember what you know.”

            For the next half hour, Holmes gave his friend his own kind of mental examination, managing to extract details Watson hadn’t even realized he’d taken in, and without losing his temper in the process, which was the real miracle.

 


	3. Hunting Stags

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alana visits Will in prison and grapples with her attraction to him and her questions about the validity of his mental processes.

**Hunting Stags**

“What's happened to me,' he thought. It was no dream.”   
― [Franz Kafka](http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/5223.Franz_Kafka),  _[The Metamorphosis](http://www.goodreads.com/work/quotes/2373750)_

 

            Alana Bloom sat opposite Will Graham. It was just a visit this time; she’d strong-armed Jack Crawford into letting her see him without the two-way glass that meant someone was eavesdropping on every word. Strong-armed wasn’t really the right word. She’d guilted him into it, really. Perhaps it wasn’t ethical to insinuate that it was Jack’s fault everything had come crashing down, that if Will was guilty, then he should bear some of the blame. She could do psychic driving of her own, and she didn’t, truth be told, feel very bad about it. Of course, when Will was proven innocent, none of it would matter anyway.

            She wasn’t sure exactly how she had come to believe so strongly in the innocence of the bowed, broken man before her. She had seen the same evidence that had convinced everyone else that appearances were realities, but it hadn’t had the same effect. For a long while, she’d agonized over whether her feelings were clouding her judgment. But then she’d wakened up one morning with absolute assurance and comfortable mental clarity. She knew Will Graham, what he was and was not capable of doing. It was always like that with her. She would puzzle over a problem until her brain sorted it for her, and when she knew something, she knew it with pristine clarity.

            What she was less sure about was Hannibal Lecter’s role. When she looked into Will’s eyes, she knew he wasn’t lying. His recovering brain was telling him that her teacher, one of the men she admired most in the world, was a ruthless, unrepentant killer. She wanted to understand how her friend’s—her almost-lover’s—mind could have arrived at such a preposterous conclusion. Will’s gift had been right in the past, but surely this was a bridge beyond sanity.

            “You’re very quiet today, Dr. Bloom.” Will smiled at her weakly.

            “I’m sorry,” she said. “I think I’m a little bit too comfortable. Even here, I feel at home talking to you.”

            “Or not talking,” he added.

            “Will, I—,” she leaned close, afraid to say what she had come to reveal, in case there was a recording device in the room, something she wouldn’t have put past Jack Crawford. “I’m working hard to get you out of here.” She gave him a meaningful look, hoping his powers of empathy would make him magically able to apprehend her intention. Of course, they did not.

            “The only way anyone’s going to do that is to pin this on the real Copycat Killer,” he said.

            “That’s what I’m trying to do,” she said, shaking her head. If he could just let go of his insanity about Lecter, she thought, people like Jack and Beverly might be more likely to listen to what he had to say about his own innocence.

            “I’m sorry we have a difference of opinion there,” he said wryly.

            “Your dogs are getting along,” Alana said, pointedly changing the subject. All she wanted was to grab him by the shoulders, kiss him, and whisper in his ear that a man named Sherlock Holmes, the best detective in the world, was going to fix his life.

            But that wasn’t practical. And Alana Bloom was nothing if not practical.

            “Good,” he said. “They’re just happy to have a place to stay.”

            She reached over then and put her hand on top of his, something she wasn’t supposed to do. Who cared about practicality after all? Definitely not Alana Bloom.

 

 


	4. The Hound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Much to her chagrin, Sherlock Holmes visits Freddie Lounds to establish some boundaries in his investigation.

 

**The Hound**

“It was half past six and the hands were quietly moving forwards.”  
― [Franz Kafka](http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/5223.Franz_Kafka), _[The Metamorphosis](http://www.goodreads.com/work/quotes/2373750)_

Holmes walked around the reporter’s apartment carefully, taking pains not to disturb anything, before settling onto the sofa comfortably. He never grew tired of observing how completely a living space could reflect the mind of its inhabitant.

And what did he observe about the mind of Freddie Lounds? Little that her writing had not already told him. She was obvious. That was her weakness, her weapon, and to some, her charm. She played all of her cards in every hand, for better or for worse.

Unbidden, the face of Irene Adler came to his mind, and his logical brain quickly categorized both women into a side-by-side comparison and contrast. Each had a certain power, a brash quality that could frighten the easily manipulated, but beyond that, the similarities ceased. Irene held all the secrecy and subterfuge that Freddie rejected.

Holmes understood neither approach fully. He could easily see situations in which secrecy was preferable, but others in which openness could be much more effective. He found each woman’s extremity excessive to the point of liability. Still, he could hardly find it in himself to complain about qualities that gave him the ability to gain footholds where there might have been none.

Within half an hour, the door opened, just as Holmes had expected it would. Upon observing him on her sofa, the redheaded reporter seamlessly whipped a can of mace out of her handbag and held it in front of his face.

“That will hardly be necessary, Miss Lounds,” he said smoothly. “After all, we know each other.” Her eyes widened at the sound of his voice, and she stepped back to take in the full effect of the trenchcoat and scarf he still wore.

After a moment, her expression changed to a positively hungry grin. “My goodness, Sherlock Holmes, the world’s only consulting detective. This _is_ a pleasant surprise.”

Holmes felt himself becoming irritated at her supercilious manner, but he forced a smile onto his face. “You know who I am, just as I thought you would.”

“Of course!” she simpered. “I take it you’re here on a case. What can a humble blogger do for you?” She sat down next to him, a little too close for comfort.

“I have my own blogger,” he couldn’t resist putting in, but he quickly continued, “Let me be totally frank, something I think you can appreciate.”

“Certainly,” she replied, staring at him as he spoke, like a greyhound contemplating a juicy bone.

“I’m here to look into the Will Graham case. I neither want, nor need, your assistance. What I need is for you to leave well enough alone and to tell no one I’m here.”

Freddie’s face darkened, but she managed to choke out, “Why come to me, then?”

“I had reason to believe that you would recognize me if you saw me during the course of my investigation, given your continuous interest in my website and John’s blog. Your powers of observation are unusually high.”

She preened a little at this, but tried to look as if she was not pleased. “And how do you intend to keep me from informing Jack Crawford of your identity?” she asked.   Holmes had nearly reached the limits of his civility. “I know that you’ve used illegal means to obtain evidence for your articles in at least three of the last five cases you’ve covered. In this apartment now, you have two objects that should, by rights, be in the FBI’s possession. I know this, and so does John. If you lean on me, I will have no choice but to tell exactly what I know.”

Freddie looked furious. “Fine,” she spat. “But if you do anything whatsoever to harass me again, I’ll have no trouble calling the police and having you arrested for breaking and entering.”

The detective rose to leave. “It seems we understand each other. Enjoy the rest of your evening.” He cut an impressive figure as he exited the apartment, a fact of which he was well aware.

 

 


	5. Gathering

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock Holmes begins to charm the unwitting Dr. Du Maurier, and John Watson finds himself receiving therapy that isn't so fake.

**Gathering**

“Was he an animal, that music could move him so? He felt as if the way to the unknown nourishment he longed for were coming to light.”   
― [Franz Kafka](http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/5223.Franz_Kafka),  _[The Metamorphosis](http://www.goodreads.com/work/quotes/2373750)_

           

            Bedelia Du Maurier listened as the rich notes of Sigerson’s beautiful violin traveled through her house and seemed to fill up her entire body. His talent had been listed in his medical charts, and she’d encouraged him to bring his instrument with him to his second appointment. Sometimes, giving a patient a chance to show that he could do something well could go a long way toward reminding him that he wasn’t hopeless. The transported look on his face while he played indicated to her that she had judged rightly

            “Mendelssohn,” she said, once he’d taken his seat back opposite her. As usual, he stared at his long fingers instead of her face. Eye contact was something she hoped to help him develop over time.

            “I like the Romantics,” he answered. “Do you?” It was the first time he’d dared to ask Bedelia anything, and she was gratified by the progress.

            “I do,” she said. “There’s something refreshing about hearing pure emotion.”

            “Yes,” he replied. “Most people wear their emotions less obviously. It would be nice to hear them so clearly.”

            “Wouldn’t it?” said the psychiatrist, thinking of Hannibal Lecter.

* * *

 

            “Dr. Doyle, why are you here?” Hannibal sat back in his chair, contemplating the short, fair-haired man in front of him. He’d deduced during their first appointment at the patient was medical, and that common ground had broken the ice. Doyle wasn’t relaxed, but he was closer to it than he’d been two days before.

            “You asked me that last time,” the patient answered.

            “Yes, and I want you to tell me again.”

            “I’m getting married, and I don’t want Afghanistan to be part of my marriage,” said the small doctor.

            “I see. You don’t limp any more, but you still feel haunted.”

            “I used to think the limp was the biggest problem, but it wasn’t.”

            “You’ve thought about taking your life,” said Hannibal matter-of-factly. It wasn’t in the medical charts, but he was no idiot.

            Surprisingly, Doyle smiled. “I used to think about it all the time. Before I started my job.”

            “Your work at the clinic that you mentioned before?” The short man nodded.

            Lecter was skeptical. The patient had to be hiding something. The medical records in his briefcase and the man before him did not combine to paint a picture of a life that would be fulfilled by sitting at a desk prescribing antibiotics for sinus infections. He considered pressing for honestly, but he determined quickly that it was too soon. He’d begun to like John Doyle, and he didn’t want to endanger the tenuous thread of trust he’d started to weave.

* * *

 

            “Did you have to give him my actual medical records?” Watson sipped his latte and rolled his eyes at his flatmate, who hadn’t said anything in a half hour, no doubt pondering the mysteries of the case.

            “I didn’t have time to completely fabricate something, and besides, this will give you plenty of things to discuss for as long as necessary. I did expunge all mentions of your blog from your previous therapist’s notes. I don’t want Lecter putting those pieces together until I’m ready,” Holmes answered, absently gulping his bold roast coffee.

            Watson wished he was at home on Baker Street, with his feet up, watching The Only Way is Essex and drinking Twinings, rather than sitting in a Baltimore Starbucks with nothing on his to-do list except therapy. He could hardly think of anything he’d rather do less. Still, Sherlock had told him he needed eyes and ears in the psychiatrist’s house, and that was enough for Watson.

            “We’re having breakfast with Alana Bloom in the morning,” said Holmes. “She wants a status report.”

            “Do you have anything to tell her?” Watson wondered.

            “Of course, John.” His flatmate seemed genuinely incredulous at the question.

            Watson knew better than to press the issue of what Sherlock planned to say. He resigned himself to having insatiate curiosity until the following day. 

 

 


	6. Sandpaper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alana Bloom meets with Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, but the update she receives is more than she bargained for.

**Sandpaper**

“Fas est ab hoste doceri.  
One should learn even from one's enemies.”   
― [Ovid](http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/1127.Ovid),  _[Metamorphoses](http://www.goodreads.com/work/quotes/2870411)_

 

            Alana Bloom was _not_ a morning person. In school, she’d basically slept through any class that took place before 10:00 a.m. These days, she didn’t take appointments or classes until 9:30, and she made sure to drink copious amounts of coffee before that time.

            8:00 a.m. _Will Graham had better be thankful for this some day_ she groused, trudging up to the door of the IHOP nearest her house. She pulled her trenchcoat tighter against the wind and checked her reflection in the window. She looked passable, if grumpy.

            “Good morning, Dr. Bloom,” said Sherlock Holmes’s short biographer as she entered. He stood up from a table on the right side of the room and smoothly pulled out a chair for her. The detective stayed seated, staring at his phone.

            “Morning,” she said, grateful that the two men had already acquired a pot of coffee. She poured a full mug and didn’t speak again until she’d drunk half of it black.

            “Well—,” hedged Alana, unsure how to begin.

            “Bedelia Du Maurier is attracted to Hannibal Lecter; she’s possibly in a romantic relationship with him. Her reason for taking a sabbatical from active practice has something to do with him, though the specifics are as yet unknown to me. Lecter has a fondness for violent and provocative artwork. He was most likely manipulating Graham, though I haven’t isolated the reason. I’d like to see Graham’s house and the cabin that belonged to the serial killer—the Shrike—next, please. No accompaniment will be necessary, and I can be in and out without making my presence known. That establishes our current status, I believe.”

            Alana stared at Sherlock Holmes, trying to process the extraordinarily fast pace of his speech and the string of statements she hadn’t expected. “Um—,” she started to feel irritated. “Hannibal? Why in the world are you investigating him? I knew you’d have to meet him at some point, but this is ridiculous. Is this some kind of personal vendetta against the man who wrote a book about you? When are you going to meet with Will Graham?” She leaned across the table, her eyes drilling into the detective.

            “Nonsense,” said Holmes coolly. “Dr. Lecter and I have yet to meet. You either desire my services, or you do not, Dr. Bloom. I require complete autonomy.” He pursed his lips, clearly unwilling to reveal more.

            The psychiatrist sat back in her rickety plastic chair and folded her arms. It was all too familiar, this situation. He was like some kind of British Jack Crawford, with the savantness of Will Graham thrown in. “Fine,” she said, rolling her eyes. It was juvenile, but she didn’t care. “Thanks for the coffee.”

            She left the restaurant, wishing she’d slept in after all. Just before she reached her car, though, Dr. Watson came jogging over, looking concerned. “I’m sorry about Sherlock,” he panted.

            She stopped in front of her driver’s side door. “Yes?”

            “He’s usually right, though,” the trim man said apologetically. Alana shook her head, but she couldn’t help half-smiling.

            The drive home was frustrating. For the first five minutes, she stewed in her feelings. After that, as always, she started to use her thoughts to sort them out. Among all the general feelings of irritation at morning light, Sherlock Holmes’s dissmissiveness, and the investigation not going the way she’d expected, there was a very specific and highly unpleasant impression. She forced herself to hone in on it; she’d long since learned that there was nothing to be gained by ignoring negative feelings.

            _What if Hannibal is involved?_

The truth of her own thoughts slammed into her conscious mind, momentarily taking her breath. Surely, it was insane to even consider it. But the thought existed, placed in her head by the earnestness of Will Graham and the certainty of Sherlock Holmes, one man she adored, and the other she was beginning to loathe. But she couldn’t shake her doubts.

            That drive home felt like the beginning of something; she just didn’t know what.

 

 

 


	7. Empathy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holmes and Watson visit Will Graham's home and use their unique perspectives to gather evidence.

Empathy

“In the make-up of human beings, intelligence counts for more than our hands, and that is our true strength.”   
—Ovid, Metamorphoses

 

Sherlock Holmes didn’t speak. He stood in the doorway of the modest home, first only smelling, then slowly opening his eyes to take in the scene around him. He clutched his pocket magnifier in his right hand, but it occupied none of his thoughts. Instead, he was completely encompassed within and without by the mind of Will Graham—that is, the mind as it was expressed by the man’s home.

He smelled the distinct odor of canine and saw spare, neat furnishings and felt himself filled with calming colors—so calm, in fact, that a person of a phlegmatic disposition might have found them drab. 

But Will Graham did not have a placid disposition. That was the irony of it. His house would have been perfectly ordinary—not that anything, Sherlock knew, was ever really ordinary. It might have been like hundreds of homes belonging to unmarried men, except for the details. The lures, painful in their intricate simplicity. The achingly symmetrical arrangement of every object.

Will was in the details, and they were painful. As he proceeded throughout the house, Holmes felt his internal state change, until he could feel the agony of a mind covered in empathy so thick it threatened to choke his very life away. If he’d tried, he could have given a hundred different reasons why he knew what it was like to be Will Graham—observations, facts, details. But those deductions united and became a single impression, the feeling of another man’s mind. He had no idea how much like Will Graham he was.

John Watson watched his friend, knowing better than to speak and disturb the rapid rhythm of inward thought. He might not lay claim to the title of detective, but he wasn’t without perception. Graham’s house reminded him of his flat, the tiny, miserable place he’d occupied before Stamford’s rescue. 

The two spaces looked nothing alike. Watson was orderly, but not pathologically so. Graham’s lures and boat parts indicated a temperament suited to the sort of detail work John despised. The furnishings were nothing like his had been, either.

But there was something. Watson couldn’t have cited a single objective fact to support a comparison. He only knew that when he walked through Will Graham’s house, a wave of emotion washed over him, so akin to the one he’d felt in the old days that it might have been its twin. 

Watson knew that he could leave it to Sherlock to prove the truth in a way a court would understand, but within himself, he was sure. The sort of man who lived in Will Graham’s home was the same sort of man who’d pulled the trigger to save his best friend on a dark night in London, and that man would not—could not—be a cold-blooded killer. As far as John was concerned, that was all there was to it.


	8. Control

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bedelia Du Maurier breaches secrecy to help her patient (Holmes in disguise), and Hannibal Lecter expounds on his philosophy of life in an effort to connect with a patient who puzzles him (Dr. Watson). Sherlock and John use the information they've gained to further their case.

Control

“Right it is to be taught even by the enemy.”  
Ovid, Metamorphoses

 

“I—I heard you quit practicing for a while. Why was that?” Sigerson’s voice was halting, and Bedelia could tell it took him great effort to ask the question. Not unusual, really. Patients with Sigerson’s neuroses could be expected to fear abandonment by a psychiatrist to whom they’d begun to become attached. The third appointment was a normal time for those feelings to surface. It was her policy to be as frank as the law allowed.

“There was an incident. A patient became violent. I spent a great deal of time coming to terms with my involvement.”

“Oh, how horrendous,” the young man answered, his face aghast. “I saw—I mean, my father was a medical doctor, you know.”

Bedelia knew nothing of the sort; his records hadn’t even mentioned his parents. Her interest, however, was piqued. She sat slightly forward, making sure all of her movements were deliberate and relaxed. Her posture was intended to convey sympathy, engagement, and the expectation of more. “Yes? What did you see?” She kept her voice soft and low.

Sigerson stared at his fingers, and Bedelia hoped he wasn’t going to lose his nerve. “I saw,” he whispered, “one of my father’s patients shoot his assistant.” The doctor clenched her fingers inadvertently, then cursed inwardly at her lack of control. She was glad Sigerson was ensconced in his own recollections and hadn’t seemed to notice.

“She—she was his wife,” he continued. “My father was having an affair with her. It all happened right in the office. I hated going there after that.” 

“I’m sorry,” Bedelia answered sincerely. “My own situation wasn’t so different.” She hadn’t intended to tell a more detailed version of the story, but she was a compassionate doctor, and Sigerson’s pale, agonized face tugged at her. She was far too discreet to use names, but in a matter of moments, she had given Sigerson a far more extensive explanation of the incident that had led to her temporary retirement than she had ever told anyone else who hadn’t been present for it. Her reward was the obvious relief on his face when he realized that he wasn’t alone.  
____________________________________________________________________________________________________

“You are afraid of your own ability to be violent.” Hannibal sat back in his Danish Modern chair and looked placidly at Dr. Doyle. The words were a challenge, of sorts. Lecter could be gentle when necessary, but he was not generally known for the subtlety of his methods. He preferred bringing the truth to the forefront as quickly as possible.

“No,” the patient answered, looking as placid as his doctor. He did not elaborate further.  
“Then what instead?” Hannibal wasn’t irritated; the little man was becoming a puzzle, and that made him more interesting.

“I can do what needs to be done, and I’m not ashamed of it,” Doyle answered. 

“That wasn’t the question,” Lecter rejoined patiently. 

“I’m not afraid, either,” the patient answered without hesitation. “I have control of myself.”

“We all lose control sometimes, Doctor,” Hannibal said, smiling. 

“Do we?” asked Doyle, his eyes drilling the psychiatrist.

“Have you ever considered that your preoccupation with control might be keeping you prisoner to the past?” Lecter continued, hoping the patient’s demeanor would give him a clue as to the efficacy of his present line of discussion.

“I think you’re just trying to make me feel better,” Doyle retorted. “You don’t seem like someone who ever loses control.” 

“Nonsense,” Hannibal answered. “The key is directing that loss of control into something useful.”

_________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Holmes was pleased. He sprawled on the coverlet of his undersized hotel bed and perused his notebook. John was already asleep in the adjoining room, but his mind was too engaged to allow him the luxury.

He considered his success of the day as a matter of course. Du Maurier had been as susceptible as he’d supposed, and her account of the incident served to flesh out (ironic turn of phrase) the official report. Of course, she had given no name for the patient who had defended her—perhaps even more savagely than she had been attacked. The psychiatrist had not used those words, but they had been hinted at underneath her calm demeanor. She had given no name, but Holmes was easily able to supply one. Lecter had been her only patient during her hiatus from practice, and the police record showed that his appointment had fallen just after Du Maurier’s attack. Those things, coupled with what Holmes was beginning to learn of Lecter’s character, made his involvement more certain than likely.

Controlled loss of control Holmes murmured to himself, underlining the phrase in his Moleskine. While his own victory had been expected, he was surprised at the nuances of what his friend had discovered. Experience had taught him that Watson was a formidable asset, but his talents usually lay in more practical directions. The doctor’s conversation with Lecter had obviously taken more imagination than Holmes had believed him capable of summoning.   
To Holmes, Dr. Lecter was like a house. Once he could see the foundation, the man’s character, he would begin to understand what sort of experiences might be built on top of it. His progress, for the moment, was more than satisfactory.


	9. Shrike's Lair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alana takes Holmes and Watson to Garrett Jacob Hobbs's cabin, and Holmes comes to an important realization.

Shrike's Lair

And Venus' son replied: 'Your bow, Apollo,  
May vanquish all, but mine shall vanquish you.  
As every creature yields to power divine,  
So likewise shall your glory yield to mine."  
— Ovid, Metamorphoses

Suppressing her annoyance with Sherlock Holmes, Alana Bloom acquired permission, at great personal risk, to bring what she called "psychiatric associates" to the cabin of Garrett Jacob Hobbs. She took pride in the fact that she hadn't really lied. The omission of exactly who these associates might be could, perhaps, be seen as an important omission, but it was a technicality. No one, including Jack Crawford, could accuse her of actual obfuscation.

In spite of Holmes's strong insistence on autonomy, Alana accompanied him and his friend, rather relishing the fact that her presence obviously irked him. He didn't dislike her; she was perceptive enough to see that. His irritation seemed more generalized, as if any encroachment on his methods was beyond the pale. Nevertheless, the psychiatrist wasn't willing to risk her career on a mishap in her absence.

"I see that Freddie Lounds's lurid descriptions didn't overstate the case," said the detective drily, crossing the threshold in front of Watson and Alana. As with every time she'd been to the cabin, Alana had to suppress a feeling of intense revulsion. It was a disgusting place. Even without her intimate knowledge of Hobbs's depravity, she would have known something was wrong in the mind of the person who'd furnished it.

"I'll stay in the front room," she said quickly. "Feel free to look, but don't disturb anything." It was her concession to Holmes's expertise.

The doctor stayed with her, still and quiet, but with a look of disgust that matched Alana's inner state. Finally, he shook his head. "It's exactly the kind of place you'd expect a serial killer to have, isn't it?"

"Exactly," Alana agreed.

"They never found his daughter's body, did they?"

"No."

Doctor and psychiatrist subsided into companionable silence, and Alana realized that her vaguely positive feelings about Dr. Watson had crystallized into genuine appreciation. He wasn't a particularly complicated specimen, but he was a very good one.

After nearly an hour, Sherlock Holmes rejoined them, displaying none of his thoughts, as usual. "I suppose it's pointless to ask if you've found anything important," Alana said resignedly. Suddenly, Holmes's blue eyes fixed themselves on her with their full intensity.

"Nothing and everything," he said, speaking abnormally quickly. "There's no possibility Will Graham is the copycat killer. Beyond that, I never guess until I have all the facts."

"I'm glad you agree with me," she answered, half-smiling."

You understand, I can't take anyone's word, even someone as intelligent as yourself, without evidence," he rejoine

"True," she conceded, amused that she'd managed to elicit something like civility from the detective. His   
awkward compliment to her mind pleased her greatly. Still, he didn't assuage her curiosity any further by explaining the reason for his abrupt acceptance of Will's innocence. That, apparently, would have to wait.


	10. Metamorphosis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock Holmes is finally ready to meet Will Graham, but he doesn't need anyone to know about it, so he poses as an FBI guard to gain access to the prisoner.

Metamorphosis

“As Gregor Samsa awoke one morning from uneasy dreams he found himself transformed in his bed into a gigantic insect.”   
― Franz Kafka, The Metamorphosis

 

Sherlock Holmes hadn’t donned a disguise in some time, and he enjoyed the process. He exchanged his slacks for an ill-fitting pair of the heavy trousers worn by the guards at the FBI holding facility, and he kept his white dress shirt, but he covered it with a boxy jacket and put a badge around his neck. A pair of large, square spectacles made his face less recognizable, and the person that peered back at him from the hotel room mirror at least held the potential to seem like someone other than himself.

He was aware of the risk his mission entailed, and as a result, he hadn’t told his flatmate about it, electing instead to do his work late in the night. Dr. Bloom, also, had no idea what he intended. She would have been furious, but he didn’t care. Better furious than implicated in something that might wreck her already-unstable career. Her unwavering support for Will Graham had already, he knew, jeopardized her credibility in the eyes of some of her colleagues. Being party to a late-night attempt to secretly gain access to the prisoner wasn’t something she needed against her record. 

He didn’t mind the risk. He’d done plenty of more dangerous things in his career, and he’d reached the point in his investigation when he felt it necessary to speak to Will Graham, but he was not yet ready to reveal his involvement in the case to the outside world. 

When he was satisfied with his appearance, Holmes went downstairs where a prearranged taxi was waiting for him. He gave the address, and the driver, who seemed twitchy enough to be high, gave him a strange look. “That’s government property,” he said. 

“I’m aware of that,” said Holmes in a flat American accent. “I’m about to start a job there.” He knew he didn’t have to explain to the cabbie, but he thought he might as well go over his cover out loud.

“Ok, Man,” said the driver, and the rest of the twenty minute ride was silent.

When they reached the entry gate, Holmes got out of the cab, paid the driver, and used a stolen barcode to gain entrance. For the door itself, he used another card, also stolen. He’d made sure no one would get in trouble for the unauthorized usage, even if he was found out. The codes belonged to recently-retired agents, but had not yet been deactivated.

Once inside, Holmes was confronted by a night guard at a desk. The man looked sleepy, but he perked up when the detective entered. “Who are you?” he asked. 

“Name’s Frampton,” said Holmes in his Midwestern voice. “I was sent to cover for Allen.”

This had taken some doing on the detective’s part. He’d hacked the FBI site and found that Allen had requested time off for his honeymoon, and it appeared that his absence was being covered by a variety of agents from other postings who didn’t necessarily know each other. This particular night, his replacement was supposed to be an Agent Donnelly, but Holmes had substituted his own name instead on the website, then made a fake call to the agent’s home to relieve her of duty.

The tired desk agent clicked into his computer, looked at the fake identification card around Holmes’s neck, and nodded. “All right. You know where to go. I probably shouldn’t say this, but you can get a nap if you like. The only one back there is Will Graham, and he’s about as harmless as a kitten. He’s supposed to have done a bunch of people in, but I reckon if he did it, he was in some kind of manic phase or something that he sure as heck ain’t in now.”

“Thanks for the info,” said Holmes, hating his own phrasing passionately but trying to sound as American as possible. 

“You bet,” said the guard, nodding to the detective, who had started down the hallway. 

Holmes considered it extremely fortunate that Graham was the only one in holding. That meant a small amount of staff and less likelihood that he would be overheard. In fact, as he made his way toward the man’s cell, he didn’t even meet another agent until he was nearly there.

“Finally.” It was a woman this time, young and as sleepy as the desk guard had been. “I’m ready to get home to my bed.” She handed Holmes a keycard. “This unlocks the cell, but I don’t know why you’d need to. He never does anything. You can also open it electronically with code 8384. If Warren didn’t tell you, you can go in the break room over there (she gestured to her right) and grab a nap. Graham won’t give you any trouble. He gets visitors sometimes—important people, but they don’t come during this shift. If you need anything, call Warren. You’re the only ones here for the graveyard shift, except Morgan. He does security at the back door.”

“Thank you,” said Holmes, forcing himself to smile widely. 

As the girl walked away, the detective made a show of doing what she had suggested, but he lingered just inside the door of the break room until her footfall had died away. Then, as if he was used to doing so, he walked confidently out of the room, down the hall, and made a right to the place where Will Graham was incarcerated.

Graham was asleep when Holmes reached the cell, and he hated to wake him—his face was pale, and he looked thin and worn, as if he needed all the rest he could get. Still, time was limited, and the detective had a mission. He took the keycard and unlocked the cell. That, he knew, would be logged electronically, and he counted on his ability to convince Graham to give a good reason for his entrance in the morning. Thankfully, his unauthorized prowling on the FBI website had assured him that the individual cells in the building were not under constant surveillance. He found it odd, but the American law enforcement agencies could be strikingly behind the times. 

At his entrance, Graham stirred and sat up, looking confusedly at the detective. “Can I help you?” he asked, putting a hand through his tousled curls.

“No,” said Holmes, “but I have very solid assurance that I may be able to help you.” He’d resumed his normal speaking voice, and he removed his jacket, badge, and spectacles.

“You’re—Sherlock Holmes,” said the other man, peering at him uncertainly, as if he thought he might be a hallucination.

“You’ve heard of me, then. That’s convenient,” said the detective. 

“Are you really here?” Holmes might have said something acerbic, but the empath’s tone was pitiful.

“Yes,” he said. “To make a long enough story short, your friend Dr. Bloom has retained me to prove your innocence.”

“Alana?”

“Yes, that’s the Bloom I mean,” said the detective, beginning to wish he’d brought coffee to jerk Graham more quickly from sleep. 

“Do you believe her?” asked the pale man, sitting up straighter.

“Yes,” said Holmes, “but not because of intuition or anything as nonsensical as that. I’ve been to your house and the Shrike’s cabin, and I’ve researched Dr. Lecter. I’ve come to you because I believe you can help me. I know that you think you use empathy to solve cases, but what you call empathy, I call the instant assimilation of details that comprise a whole so complete they allow you to reconstruct the mind of someone else.”

“That’s fair,” Graham answered drily.

“What I want is for you to explain Lecter to me and give me enough to go on that I can ascertain his guilt or innocence,” said the detective. “I know you believe in his guilt, but I can’t take anyone’s word for it. I have to have proof.”

“I’ve told lots of people what I suspect,” answered Will, “but none of them could make sense of it.”

“I’m not like anyone else,” answered Holmes, taking a seat on the end of Graham’s cot. “I promise that if you tell your story once more, the rewards will be far greater than they have been.”

“Fine,” said Graham, leaning forward and resting his chin on his hands. Holmes smelled something very faint a made a mental note to ask Dr. Bloom if anyone had ever checked her friend for encephalitis.


	11. Doctors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Armed with new-found knowledge, Sherlock Holmes approaches Dr. Bedelia Du Maurier in his true guise.

Doctors

“We are ever striving after what is forbidden, and coveting what is denied us.”  
Ovid, Metamorphosis

Dr. Du Maurier looked forward to seeing Sigerson. Their previous session, in which he had revealed details of his past trauma, had signaled great progress. The patient was opening up to her, and she did not, in retrospect, regret opening up to him. Sometimes that was what it took for progress to occur. Hannibal might not—Dr. Lecter might not like that she had spoken about the incident, but he did not need to know. 

The young man was as punctual as ever, and Bedelia answered the door to find him dressed in a suit and without his violin. “Good afternoon,” she said, smiling. She did not remark on his attire, not wanting to make him uncomfortable.

“Good afternoon, Dr. Du Maurier,” he answered. 

There was something different, she realized. His voice was more assured, and so was his way of walking. She was skilled in the art of nonverbal communication, and to a trained eye, he was like a different person—like someone confident to the point of being dangerous, someone in control. He sat down, and she took her seat opposite, trying to understand what had effected his transformation.

“My name is Sherlock Holmes,” he said abruptly. “You may have heard of me. Your patient, Dr. Lecter, wrote a book about a case I solved.”

“Why the charade, then?” she asked, as realization and then irritation at the deception washed over her. 

“Purely for investigative purposes,” he answered, sitting forward in his chair. “You know, I’m sure, about Will Graham.”

“Yes,” she answered, “it’s unfortunate.”

“Not so much unfortunate as intentionally malevolent,” said her former patient, completely in his element. “I’ve been investigating you, and I now know you’re uninvolved. I can’t say the same for Lecter.”

“Lecter?” she said, surprised. “He’s bent over backwards to help Graham, in spite of Will’s delusions.”

“I won’t waste time refuting incorrect assumptions with words,” said Holmes, who now seemed about ten years older than he had in his Sigerson guise. “I’ve uncovered a plot, and it bears Lecter’s unmistakable fingerprints.” He produced a file folder, which he handed to Bedelia. His long fingers, she noticed, trembled no longer.

“You will find, in here, proof of a brain scan performed on Graham several weeks ago at Lecter’s request, a scan that clearly showed encephalitis. Everyone, including Will, was instead informed that his brain showed no abnormalities whatsoever. You will also find a drawing Graham made of a clock—Lecter has several of these; my associate was only able to nab one during an appointment. According to his account, Lecter told him he’d drawn them perfectly.”

He fell silent, and Du Maurier looked through the file, her heart sinking further and further as she realized that he had been entirely truthful about its contents. “This is bad,” she said, “very bad.” She was no fool. She liked Hannibal, but she would not let herself be blinded to the obvious. Her debt to her friend and patient did not supersede her basic morality.

“Why are you showing me this?” she finally asked.

“I need your help,” said Holmes. “I have enough evidence to prove that Lecter is messing about with Graham’s brain, but not enough to completely implicate him in the murders. You do realize, I take it, that this points that way?”

“Yes,” Bedelia answered softly, pressing her fingernails into the arm of her chair. “I—I think I should have known, but Hannibal is an extremely charismatic man.”

“And one to whom you owe a debt, possibly your life,” Holmes finished for her. 

Du Maurier smiled wryly. “That was very clever, what you did during your last visit. I had no idea I was being played. You’re as good as Lecter is.” 

The detective pressed his fingertips together. “That’s what I’m counting on.”

__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

Hannibal Lecter watched the clock as five minutes passed, then ten. Doyle wasn’t coming. It was unlike him to be late, even less like him not to call and reschedule. He wasn’t that kind of man. He was meticulous, conscientious. When a patient did something out of character, that was the time to wonder and consider. 

__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

“And I Just. Want. To. Know. What. Is. Going. On.” John was in one of his moods, perched on an uncomfortable Holiday Inn desk chair, with his ever-present mug of tea in his left hand, his right punctuating each word by punching the air. The doctor was usually good-humored, if grumpy, but occasionally he took as much exception to being kept in the dark as Dr. Bloom did. 

Sherlock shook his head. “Quiet, John. I need quiet.”

“They why didn’t you send me to my appointment?” The detective could tell that the edge in his friend’s voice was such that he wouldn’t be put off, so he turned around on his perch at the center of his hotel bed, setting his laptop down next to him.

“I’m at the point where I need someone who actually knows Lecter to do the digging,” he said succinctly. “It no longer serves my—our—purposes for Doyle to exist.”

“And you think Du Maurier will actually help you?” the doctor asked. 

“Of course,” said Holmes. “She feels indebted to Lecter and perhaps slightly afraid of him, but I accurately sized her up as retaining a moral compass.” He spoke quickly, begrudging the wasted time it took to explain himself. 

“Of course, I would know that if you’d told me anything about your appointment today,” said Watson, huffing and pulling on the edges of his pullover.

“Perhaps you should go meet with Dr. Bloom,” the detective rejoined, trying to conjure a method of simultaneously placating his associate and earning himself a chance for uninterrupted quiet. 

“Fine,” his flatmate said, standing up and putting his hand through his hair. “I’ll do your work for you.” His attempt to project irritation failed, and Sherlock was well aware that he was pleased to be given the assignment.


	12. Doubt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alana Bloom is fed up with Sherlock Holmes's unwillingness to communicate with her, but her annoyance is superseded by her shock at what she learns about Hannibal Lecter.

Doubt

“Omnia mutantur, nihil interit (everything changes, nothing perishes).”  
—Ovid, Metamorphoses

 

Alana had known something was different as soon as she’d approached Will Graham’s cell. Her friend had been sitting up, reading a book and looking as if he had a purpose for living, rather than lying on his cot staring listlessly at the ceiling tiles. That was new.

An hour of trying to pry the truth out of him had gotten her nowhere. He was obviously happier and more hopeful than she’d seen him in months, but along with the change in mood came a reticence to communicate that she didn’t understand.

“I’m on your side, Will,” she’d tried to reiterate.

“I know,” he’d answered, smiling the first genuine smile she’d seen from him since she could remember. 

Walking away from the holding facility, it hit her. I’m a fool she hissed to herself. The whole thing bore the elusive fingerprints of Sherlock Holmes and his unwillingness or inability to communicate his movements. She was glad she was scheduled to meet with him that afternoon because she could give him a piece of her mind. Expert or no expert, his methods annoyed her. 

She understood why Hannibal had chosen to write a book about him. He was just the sort of person who would intrigue Lecter, who always enjoyed awkward or maladjusted people. 

Of course, he enjoyed her, too, but that was different. She wasn’t a sport or pastime to Hannibal the way a lot of people were. She wasn’t an equal, either. In fact, she sometimes felt like she was an outsider. For all his willingness to reserve craft beer for her, she sometimes felt like he wanted to get under her skin in a way he never quite could. He was ever the perfect gentlemen, but sometimes his kindness seemed a little bit—dangerous. 

Alana didn’t like the way her thoughts were tending, so she was glad that her arrival at the Panera Bread parking lot diverted her attention. The restaurant wasn’t crowded when she entered, and she quickly spied Holmes’s doctor friend at a booth in the corner. He was alone, and she didn’t know whether to be glad that Holmes wasn’t present or irritated that he hadn’t deigned to come. 

She stayed at the counter long enough to order a latte and a Danish, before joining Dr. Watson, who stood when he saw her, as if it was 1955. “So your boss sent you to do his dirty work,” she said, unconsciously echoing Watson’s own words. 

“He’s not my boss,” said the diminutive man quickly.

“What, then?” she asked, momentarily distracted by her curiosity. 

“We’re flatmates,” he answered. “I write about him.” He fell silent again, and she could tell that was all she was going to get.

“Well,” she said, her mood improving as she began to nibble her cheese Danish, “are you authorized to tell me anything?”

“Sherlock’s been to see Graham and Du Maurier,” he answered readily. Alana smiled, deciding that she was definitely glad the doctor was the one who’d come. 

“Why Du Maurier?”

“I find it as hard to get information out of him as you do,” Watson answered, “but he enlisted her help to investigate Lecter.”

“How?” Alana asked, trying to rein in her immediate revulsion to the idea of Hannibal’s involvement. 

“He—” and the doctor went into what Bloom could only assume was his best bedside manner—“I’m sorry to tell you this, but he found evidence that Lecter lied about Will’s physical condition.”

“What?” This she hadn’t expected. “Holmes sent me an email about encephalitis,” she said, “but I told him Will had been cleared for anything like that.”

“Sherlock obtained hospital records,” the doctor continued, his tone gentle. “Lecter falsified a report.”

“No!” said Alana, feeling her face flush. Realizing that she’d spoken loudly enough to attract attention, she leaned slightly forward and worked to make her voice level. “It’s—I’ll give you that Lecter is a little bit cold-blooded sometimes, but he always does what’s best for the patient.”

Dr. Watson just looked at her without speaking. “You have proof?” she finally asked softly.

“Yes,” he answered. “Absolute proof.”

Bloom swore under her breath. “Is there anything else?” she asked.

“Not that I know of,” the doctor answered. With that, Alana took a few crumpled dollars out of her purse, placed them on the table, and left. Her light sweater didn’t offer much protection against the biting wind, but she was glad. She wanted the sensory impressions around her to crowd out the thoughts that felt like they were choking her from within.


	13. Ghost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A shaken Bedelia Du Maurier informs Sherlock Holmes of a potentially crucial piece of information.

Ghost

“God himself helps those who dare.”  
Ovid, Metamorphoses

Sherlock Holmes sipped a glass of wine—an excellent vintage; Du Maurier’s taste had obviously been influenced by Lecter’s. He studied the woman in front of him as she had once attempted to study him. 

She was rattled. The hand that had poured his wine now rested on the arm of her chair, but it shook almost imperceptibly every few seconds. Her legs, which were normally stretched out in front of her as she sat, were tightly crossed—coiled, almost. Holmes did not ask her anything. She would begin, he knew, when she was able. 

“I—believe you’re right about Hannibal,” she said finally, “but there’s more, unless he was lying to me. He didn’t seem to be. I don’t think he suspected anything. We’ve known each other a very long time. I think I would have known.”

“So do I,” echoed the detective. “Please continue.”

“I asked him about Hobbs,” she said. “I know that seems like a very direct approach to the issue, but it’s not unusual for us. I’m supposed to be his therapist, after all. We’ve discussed it many times. I led with a question about Abigail, the man’s daughter. I’m sure you know they’ve never found the body. If they did, it’s expected that it would add a great deal of weight to the case. I said—I asked Hannibal if he thinks about her and if he still feels guilt for being unable to protect her.”

“Yes?” Holmes sat forward in his seat. The psychiatrist took a large drink of her own wine.

“He—said he’d found a way to make it right. I asked him how. He answered, ‘Sometimes a ghost simply needs a new home.’”

“I tried to press him more, but he wouldn’t say anything else, and I couldn’t continue for fear that he would figure out that my curiosity tended in a new direction. I went on to something else after that.”

“Thank you,” said Sherlock, with genuine admiration in his voice. 

“Do you have a theory about what he meant?” Bedelia asked.

“I expect mine tends in the same direction as yours,” he answered. “If Lecter chose to leave Abigail Hobbs alive, then he made the mistake that will bring him down.”

Du Maurier’s right hand inadvertently clenched in on itself. “What do you want me to do?” 

“Nothing more; you’ve been successful beyond what I had hoped for,” answered the detective. “You used Lecter’s trust in you to excellent purpose. I have a friend who lives a half hour away. He used to be part of you country’s Navy Seals, but he’s on his own now and available for personal assignments. He has a dark blue sedan. I’ve instructed him to watch this neighborhood constantly from this night on until Lecter is apprehended, in order to insure your safety, provided you don’t object. He will report to me if anything unusual occurs. I can’t prevent you from meeting Lecter again, but I strongly advise against it. The level of trust you share runs in two directions, and your temptation to tell him more than you intend might be irresistible. I can assure you that this matter is hurtling toward a conclusion. If you contrive a way to cancel your next appointment, you will not have to do so again.”

“Thank you,” she answered. “I do not object.” 

Holmes did not tell Bedelia that his earlier visit to the restroom had given him the opportunity to put a listening device on her telephone, and he also did not tell her that he had scheduled their present appointment to occur on the same day as her meeting with Lecter so that if she weakened later on and confessed, he would already have had time to use whatever she had told him to put a plan into motion. That her words would be quite so revelatory, he had not expected.


	14. Manipulation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dr. Du Maurier becomes a pawn in an extremely dangerous game.

Manipulation  
"What was there to complain of, but that she had been loved?"  
Ovid, Metamorphoses

 

Bedelia du Maurier weakened.  
She wasn't normally a weak woman. She'd always been famous for her strength in the face of the impossible stories and heartbreaking pain her patients shared with her.  
This was different. Ever since the attack, something had changed. Except, she was beginning to realize it wasn't the attack itself that had effected the transformation in her relationship with Lecter. It was Hannibal's defense.  
Before the incident, they had been doctor and patient, colleagues with mutual interests. Afterward, he was the man who had saved her life. It was all about the power, and Hannibal, she now saw, had taken his opportunity to seize control. He'd never let go.  
Bedelia picked up her home phone, too afraid someone would trace her mobile. "Hannibal?"

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"I'll come over," Lecter said smoothly, calm and composed. It was obvious from her scattered, worried tone that Bedelia du Maurier had become a liability.  
"They—have someone watching my neighborhood," she answered breathlessly.  
"Then we'll speak on the phone," he said, slightly frustrated. He'd hoped to take care of the problem right away, but he would settle for finding out exactly what she knew and had potentially told Crawford.  
"They know about the encephalitis," she began, "and they're wondering about Abigail. I'm afraid—they're putting things together, Hannibal."  
"Putting what together?" he asked gently. "Will's physical condition is unfortunate, but it hardly impacts the evidence of the case."  
"Where is Abigail?" she asked. "If Will killed her, what did he do with the body?"  
"There's no body, Dr. Du Maurier," he said quietly. "Abigail was the one I was able to save. I knew Will planned to kill her, so I rescued her. She has a new name and a new life, beyond Crawford's clutches or Will's delusions."  
He could hear Bedelia's breathing even out on the other end of the line. "Where is she? If you're not involved, tell me where she is."  
In the seconds that followed, Hannibal weighed his options. He could refuse to tell her, but that would be counterproductive, since it would only inflame her further and possibly prompt more communication with the authorities. Telling her would buy him the trust he needed to solidify her silence, at least for a few hours.  
"She's in New York," he said, "studying fashion design."  
"You can prove this?" she asked.  
"Of course," he answered. "I'll come visit you after dark. I'm good at evasive measures. You're surveillance friends won't be any the wiser."  
"All—right," she answered, and he could tell by the tone of her voice that she was on his side, at least for the moment, and one night was all he needed.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Fashion Institute of Technology," said Sherlock Holmes rapidly, punching letters into his smartphone while he paced in front of his hotel room dresser.  
"How do you know it's that school?" asked John, hardly less keyed up than his friend by what they had just heard.  
"That's the only school Lecter would send her to," answered Sherlock. "It's the best. Some day, when this is all over, I'll give you all the deductions, but there's no time now."  
"Fine," John rejoined. "I trust you, but what are we going to do?" He breathed deeply, remembering his military training.  
"Call Dr. Bloom," Sherlock replied. "Lecter is going to try to kill Du Maurier tonight."  
"How do you know that?" Watson asked. Noting his friend's glare, he continued, "I trust you, but if Bloom is going to get Crawford or the police, she has to have a reason that makes sense to people who aren't you, and they can't use an illegally wiretapped phone call as actual evidence."  
"He knows he can't trust her any more, since she turned informer on him. There's no reason for him to tell her where Abigail is unless he's sure he has nothing else to worry about. If she lives, she can talk. He's not planning to let that happen."  
With that, John Watson picked up his own mobile and punched in the number for Alana Bloom.


	15. Linchpin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alana Bloom travels to Manhattan and finds Abigail Hobbs.

Linchpin

"Why clutch so vainly at such a brittle figment? What you hope to lay hold of has no existence. Look away and what you love is nowhere."

—Ovid, Metamorphoses

"Hello, Abigail."

Dr. Alana Bloom was seated behind a desk in an absent adjunct's brightly-lit office at FIT. Any other time, she would have enjoyed a trip to Manhattan, but at present, she could hardly force herself to project the aura of calm she wanted the girl to see.

It was a credit to her intelligence that Abigail didn't try to feign ignorance or act like her new name, Cynthia Porter, actually belonged to her. She simply blinked once and asked, in her usual flat way, "What do you want?"

"Sit down," said Alana in a kind but firm tone that made it clear she wasn't asking. The vehemence of the anger she suddenly felt at the girl surprised her. She wasn't given to emotional displays, and the logical side of her brain knew that Abigail had been through so much that anything she'd done was motivated by—well, by who knew what darkness Garrett Jacob Hobbs had lodged in the mind of his unfortunate progeny. Still, as she looked at Abigail, who, curiously enough, had two perfectly healthy ears on each side of her head, she couldn't help but think of Will and want to throttle the one person who might have given evidence that could have spared him the whole ordeal. Nevertheless, years of training had made her able to repress the red behind her eyes.

"Will Graham is on trial for several murders," she said quietly, "one of them yours. I think you know that Hannibal committed them, and, for some reason, you chose to disappear without telling anyone. If you refuse to talk, I'll prove that Hannibal set up this identity for you, and it will come out one way or the other. If you talk now, you'll be a cooperative witness, and things will go a lot easier on you." She was used to being subtler, but she had no time, and Abigail Hobbs was hardly a subtle specimen.

"Hannibal knows something I did," said Abigail calmly. She'd always been pragmatic.

"And he wanted to protect you," Alana supplied, knowing Lecter's fascination with the girl. That was when something clicked in Dr. Bloom's brain, something that had been turning around and around in her thoughts for a long time. "You did kill Nicholas Boyle. Jack was right." Abigail nodded once, curtly. "That's what Hannibal had over you," the doctor continued.  
"All right," said Alana. "It's time to talk, if you want to get out of this with any hope of a life ahead of you." She took out a small digital recorder. "We'll start with an easy one. How did your DNA get onto someone else's ear?"

Abigail hugged herself, sitting back in her chair, showing genuine distress for the first time. "I thought he was going to kill me. I think he almost did. Then he said I reminded him of his sister, and he took some of my DNA instead. I don't know where he got the ear, but he injected my DNA into it and onto it. He knew the test they do—he did it lots of times to make sure they would keep getting a high percentage match with me."

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Two hours later, Alana Bloom sent an audio file to Jack Crawford and John Watson before boarding an airplane home. Next to her sat Abigail Hobbs, who stared straight ahead and said nothing at all.


	16. Assembling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock Holmes finally brings Jack Crawford into the last phase of his plan.

Assembling

"It was half past six and the hands were quietly moving forwards."

—Franz Kafka, The Metamorphosis

Sherlock Holmes tapped his fingers in a steady rhythm on the arm of his chair. He was facing Jack Crawford, seated in his understated office, the domain of a man who was at once supremely competent and extremely self-effacing. He wanted to scream at the delay, but he refused to let himself obscure even one sound of the recording that was playing on Crawford's computer. Finally, Alana Bloom's voice died away.

Crawford looked up, then dropped his head into his hand. "Why didn't Alana come to me before?"

"She knew that you couldn't afford to act on Will's behalf without hard evidence," Sherlock answered quickly, "and I didn't have any for quite a while. She also didn't want to risk her career. If she'd come to me, and I'd mucked up the investigation, she'd have jeopardized her entire life. That was unlikely, of course, but even I don't claim to be perfect."

A ghost of a smile crossed Crawford's face. "You remind me a little bit of Lecter yourself, Mr. Holmes."

"Of course," said Sherlock impatiently, ready to get to the point. "That's why I was the one to catch him. If you're going to act, you'll have to act now. Lecter has an appointment at the home of Dr. Du Maurier. He's going to kill her. You now realize, from Abigail's testimony, that's he's certainly capable of it. If you catch him in the attempt, you'll have reason to arrest him that goes beyond even the girl's testimony, though I'm sure that will lead to hard evidence soon enough."

"Yes," was all Crawford answered, but it was sufficient. "I'll mobilize a team."

__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

John Watson stood in the shadows at the end of an ordinary-looking street, watching the car that patrolled Bedelia Du Maurier's neighborhood as it passed by then circled back. He had his phone in his hand, alert to the fact that Holmes's former special forces friend might text him at any moment to tell him that Lecter had entered the area. He wondered what was taking Holmes so long. It felt like he'd been working Crawford over for hours.

To John's surprise, the first movement he saw was from Du Maurier's house, rather than elsewhere. Exactly as if she hadn't a care in the world, he saw the tall, svelte figure of the beautiful doctor load two small suitcases into her car, then get inside and drive off. Five minutes later, his phone lit up with confirmation from the Navy Seal that Bedelia had left the neighborhood entirely.

Watson texted his flatmate as quickly as he could. Du Maurier's gone.

The reply was swift. Clever woman. Lecter will come anyway. We're on our way. SH


	17. Nightfall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal prepares to eliminate the Du Maurier threat.

Nightfall

"My aim is sure; I wound my enemies, I wound wild beasts; my countless arrows slew"

—Ovid, Metamorphoses

Bedelia Du Maurier lounged on a long chair in front of the picture window that framed her view of the ocean. Her selection of a tropical island paradise had been nearly random. She couldn't remember the last time she'd acted randomly, but she'd also never had to flee to start a new life. Everything has a first some time.

She did not consider herself cowardly. Human beings are not cowards for running from venomous snakes in the grass, and it is not possible to fight a foe that remains hidden. She hoped that Will Graham or Sherlock Holmes might have the craftiness to draw the predator into the open, but she knew she did not possess it herself. At least Will was Hannibal's weakness, and Lecter did not want him to die. The empath had that going for him.

What Dr. Du Maurier did not know was that she, too, had been a weakness Lecter had imprudently allowed himself. Unable to resist the allure of a mind as intelligent as his own, he had allowed her to wind her beauty and refinement around him like a golden cobweb. Neither the doctor nor her lone patient realized that when he'd finally seen the error of his ways and the necessity of her death, it was too late.

 

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Hannibal Lecter played Debussy in his mind—Clair de Lune. He picked the lock on his therapist's door with quiet, uncomplicated ease. His errand was a pity, he thought, but it had to be done. In another life, he might have been in love with Du Maurier. Perhaps he even was, a little. Perhaps more than a little. He did not like thinking of long evenings unpunctuated by the quiet brilliance of her companionship.

His plastic suit was impeccable. He'd have liked to eschew it so that the moment between them could be personal. A mind as magnificent as Bedelia's deserved more than cold plastic against her skin. Still, he could not risk leaving evidence in the home of a woman well known to the FBI. It must be plastic, but he would do it with his hands, the way a master butcher slaughters the most prized of animals in a private abattoir. It would be his last act of love.

Except, as he walked through her living room, he felt frustration mounting. She had gone. He had overestimated his power over her—not much, but enough that she had slipped from his grasp for the time being. That meant she was sure enough in her suspicions to believe he meant her harm. It was an obstacle—not an insurmountable one, especially if he could manipulate the FBI to help find her—but an obstacle nonetheless. That was when the tramp of feet caught him unaware, and he found himself surrounded by ten FBI agents in full riot gear.

Jack Crawford read him his Miranda rights. Hannibal stood stock still among them, serene and smiling, not classless enough to fight when he knew he had no chance of winning.

"Dr. Lecter," said a deep, British voice. A pale young man stepped out of the shadows, clad in a long coat.

"Mr. Holmes," said Hannibal, recognizing him.

"Your book about my movements during the Hudson case was far better reading than I expected. I must thank you for doing my mind justice," said the detective.

"You are most welcome," Lecter answered, as Jack Crawford clicked handcuffs into place around his plastic-covered wrists.


	18. Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will Graham comes home, and Abigail Hobbs faces the consequences of her choices.

Home

What was before is left behind; what never was is now;and every passing moment is renewed.  
—Ovid, Metamorphoses

Alana Bloom awoke to the sound of dogs barking—Will’s dogs. They had awakened her a few times before, when they had smelled other animals or thought a predator was nearby, but this was different. As the morning light broke through her bedroom window, the sound grew louder and louder, a sustained crescendo of canine delight.

The doctor wrapped her robe around her statuesque frame and rubbed her eyes, opening the door and emerging into the chill of dawn. Before she could even assimilate her surroundings, she felt herself enveloped in surprisingly substantial arms and pulled tight against a man who felt like Will Graham. 

Her lips found his easily. If it was a dream, she thought, it was the best one she’d ever had. She twined her fingers through his curls and wrapped herself around him as tightly as he was already holding her. Soft fur rubbed her bare shins, the dogs unwilling to be parted from their long-lost master for a single moment.

When it was finally necessary to pull back for breath, Alana was afraid to look into his eyes, afraid he would disappear or change, the way people do in dreams. But he was still Will. His warm eyes looked down at her, and his lips curved into a smile, a real one, filled with joy she had never seen him possess, not even when she’d first met him.

“Hello, Dr. Bloom,” he said softly. “Thank you for saving my life.”

“How are you here?” she asked, returning his smile and relishing the feeling of his hands resting lightly on her waist. 

“Emergency court order,” he answered. “As soon as they arrested Hannibal, Jack got a judge to sign off on it. I’m technically under FBI custody for now, but the charges will be dropped in the next few days.”

“You know Abigail is alive?” asked Alana, a little afraid of how the news might affect him if he hadn’t been told.

“Yes,” he answered. “I’d like to see her. I hope—” he looked at the doctor in the vaguely reproachful way he always had when he was about to reprimand her. (Some things, she thought, never change.) “I hope you weren’t too hard on her. She’s had a very difficult time.”

“When I realized that she could have made the entire case against you disappear, I wanted to kill her,” answered Alana matter-of-factly. She’d never believed in denying her true feelings once she knew what they were. “But don’t worry, I’ve been a psychiatrist too long to let my feelings run away with me. I was perfectly civil. I can’t claim more than that.”

Will put his forehead against hers, and there was something like amusement in his face. “I didn’t realize you were so determined. No one else in the whole FBI would have consulted Sherlock Holmes for me.”  
“No one else in the FBI is in love with you,” she replied. “Not that I know of, at least.”

“What’s he like?” asked the empath.

“Holmes?” she answered. “Impossible.”  
_______________________________________________

Abigail Hobbs stared at the wall of the cheap hotel room where the FBI had chosen to keep her for the night. She was lucky, they said, that she wasn’t in jail, now that the truth about her role in the death of Nicholas Boyle was a matter of official record. The only reason she wasn’t behind bars was because her role as a star witness in the case against Hannibal Lecter was more important for the moment, and they hadn’t gotten around to charging her yet. Still, the uniformed agent just outside the door made her feel just as imprisoned as if she’d been in a cell. 

At one time, Abigail had thought Dr. Bloom might speak for her if she were ever found out, but that time was long gone, and she had felt the anger that bubbled below the surface of the psychiatrist’s calm civility. Abigail didn’t blame her. Of course she was furious at the person who had nearly allowed Will Graham to take the fall for so much unspeakable evil. Of course she hated the girl who had let the world think Will was the same thing as her father, Garrett Jacob Hobbs. 

And she hated herself. It had been a long time since she’d realized her mistake in trusting Hannibal, the man who really was like her father, instead of Will, who was so very different. Will must hate her now, too. There was no question of that. She was alone, and no one would ever defend her again. She sat up in the middle of the grimy hotel bed, her head on her knees, wishing she could forget her entire life.

The sun signalled morning before the sound of voices interrupted her reverie. Alert, she stood up and waited in front of the door, anticipating the moment of arrest, when they would come to put handcuffs on her and take her to a jail cell. 

Instead, the door opened, and only one person came inside: Will Graham. Abigail stepped back and wrapped her arms around herself for subconscious protection as he carefully closed the door behind him. 

“Hi, Abigail,” he said.

“Hi,” she said, trying desperately to control the emotions welling up inside her. She was not as good at hiding her feelings as she’d once been.

“I came to tell you I forgive you,” said the man in front of her, “and if you’re tried, I’ll appear as a witness. I understand what happened.”

“Why would you do that?” Abigail asked, her voice threatening to betray her, unable to speak except in clipped syllables for fear she would break down.   
“How long has it been since anyone hugged you?” asked Will, instead of answering. Abigail stared at the carpet as he stepped forward and took her in his arms, holding her gently, even tenderly. 

At first, she was stiff in his embrace, remembering the times Hannibal’s arms had held the promise of affection but instead brought manipulation and fear, much like her own father’s twisted obsession. But Will had always been different. His care, even in his darkest moments, had never been selfish and never been controlling. He had only ever loved.

Abigail finally relaxed, resting her head on on his shoulder and focusing on the long-forgotten physical comfort of being held. She realized after a long while that she was crying.


	19. Conclusion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock Holmes visits Hannibal Lecter, and John Watson and Will Graham share a moment of celebration.

Conclusion

"Happy are those who dare courageously to defend what they love."

—Ovid

Sherlock Holmes stood in front of what could only be described as a cage in the psychiatric holding facility where Hannibal Lecter now spent his days. "Good morning, Mr. Holmes," said the elegantly-accented voice, as Lecter's eyes surveyed him appreciatively.

"Good morning," the detective answered, smiling. "I've come to thank you for being one of the most interesting killers of my career."

Lecter bowed slightly. "My pleasure, of course."

Holmes took a seat in the metal folding chair an orderly had provided, ready for a scintillating morning discussion with one of the most intractable psychopaths in the world. It was a rare treat and one he could only enjoy in person once, though he very much hoped to strike up a lively correspondence with the incarcerated psychiatrist.

___________________________________________________________

John Watson sat in Alana Bloom's living room, drinking wine and watching her set the table with the help of Will Graham, who looked as if he'd de-aged ten years since his release.

"Thank you for coming, Doctor Watson," Bloom said after a long, companionable silence. "I'm glad you're the one who accepted my invitation. But—please tell Holmes thank you. He may be the most insufferable person I've ever met, but I owe him more than I could ever pay." She smiled in Graham's direction.

"He never cared about any money," Watson asserted. "Besides, I have a selfish reason to be thankful for this case, too."

"Why is that?" the doctor asked, her psychiatrist senses clearly tingling.

"I'm getting married," Watson asserted, "and I thought the things I saw as a soldier would affect my relationship."

"And now?" she enquired.

"This case showed me that I'm a stronger man for what I saw, not a weaker one. I can stare anything in the face now." He gazed into his wine glass, his expression serene. "I can marry without fear."

"Fearlessness is a blessing not to be underestimated," Will put in, smiling as if it was a blessing he'd only just gained and never meant to lose again.

The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took me so long to get this last little postscript of a chapter uploaded. I had major, life-altering surgery a month ago, and I haven't even been able to think about writing anything lately. Words can't express how much I've enjoyed writing this crossover. I love both universes, and they're even more brilliant together.


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